


The Author's Notes

by foolscapper



Series: The Author's Notes Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s05e04 The End, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Mental Instability, Protective Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to The Epilogue in a Very Long Biography. “Five months since he got Sam back, he sets an alarm to wake up in the early morning hours.” Warnings: Suicide and thoughts of suicide, violence, blood, angst, serious subject matters like depression. 4,800+ word count. Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Author's Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Genre: Hurt/Angst/Comfort  
> Pairing: Gen.  
> Rating: Mature  
> Word Count: 4,860  
> Warnings: Suicide and thoughts of suicide, violence, blood, angst, serious subject matters like depression.  
> Prompt: The End spoilers. End!verse. “Five months since he got Sam back, he sets an alarm to wake up in the early morning hours.”
> 
> Author’s Notes: This is a sequel to my endverse fic, The Epilogue in a Very Long Biography! Please check that out first!

 

It’s 2022, and there aren’t any hovercrafts or weird futuristic costumes. There are rusted trucks and old hand-me-downs covered in holes and popped seams. Sam is turning 40 today, past the age he expected either of them to ever reach, so Dean supposes that’s one blessing he should count (and not one he should ever give angels or God credit for).

Dean had only found him three months ago: after Lucifer and the Croats, after the death and destruction that had followed Sam’s body being taken… after a futile struggle that had accumulated with Dean’s neck being snapped under his brother’s foot, he had finally found Sam years and years later, toiling away in a field out there with a weary walk and a stroke of gray in that unruly hair. Dean had said his name, spun him around, and let Sam melt into his chest, let Sam beg for death under his chin while he covered him in snot and tears. Dean wondered, then, where all of the slowly festering anger and betrayal and hatred for the man had gone.

… No, not hate. That was the frustrating part. That the hate didn’t come to him like it should’ve. Day after day back then, looking for Lucifer, Dean had  _wished_ he could despise Sam long enough to get the job done. When he’d found him all these years later working in a settlement, he’d expected to slam his fist into Sam’s face. Smack him, make him bleed. Spit and curse and belittle him. He let the world down. He burned it all up, splashed the seasons full of blood and pus and darkness, and for that, Dean wasn’t sure he could ever truly forgive him.

But he didn’t hate him. He loved him so much it made his chest hurt, stole his breath. Even if Dean had changed after all these years into this far more bitter, angry, tired man, it was one constant in his life: he loved his little brother too much. And in a way, he helped walk Sam right into Satan’s arms. Knowing that much, remembering the infant that teetered toward him, reliving those years on the road in his head… Love’s a bitch. A cruel fucking mistress, that’s what.

He wakes up in camp and stretches, gets the kinks out of his neck, and wanders outside to greet a surprisingly hot summer day. The sun pokes holes through the trees and the air smells like pine needles. He goes to Sam’s cabin, ready to wake his brother with a neutral frown and drag him off to force food down his throat. His brother had always been a picky eater, and after Jess he had just never recuperated into anything healthy - a salad here and there, water, a beer. He probably thought Dean never paid any mind to his diet other than to mock his croutons. Nowadays, Sam is muscular but it’s all muscle on bone, too thin for a guy his height, and he seems to want to occupy his time any other way except through nourishing himself.

“Sam, rise and shine.”

He claps on the door again. His nerves are already frayed at having to do it twice, because it had been hard enough finally trusting his brother to be alone in his own place. When they’d first picked him up, Sam was hysterical at the sight of him, ready to throw himself under a blade once he was in their company, and in that first week Sam had cut himself. Bad. Severed the artery in his neck, pumped blood onto the floor, everything. Of course, his body never seemed to want to stay dead, and Dean can’t help but be glad he at least has some fucked-up power that keeps him going. Some… hell-spawn left in his chest, courtesy of Lucifer. A violation to the shreds of his humanity. Still, that angel-birthed strength is fading, and like hell is Dean relying on it. He thinks about how often Sam must’ve tried to cut into himself before and it makes him ill.

Things got a little better, though. Sam had promised Dean that he wouldn’t turn a knife on himself, or a gun, or a fucking rope, or anything like that. But promises only go so far before paranoia kicks in. 

_What if he’s dead for real in there?_

Just got him back and he’d be in a heap on the floor again, pouring his life out and going pale as a ghost. Dean’d spent a very large portion of the End of the World imagining how he would burn his brother’s body if he had to, how Sam would go out. Where he would shoot him, if he had to. He had pumped himself up for it like he was goddamn Rocky, training for it, letting his emotions flutter away and leave the soldier his dad had always prepared him to be.

Lately, he’s been having nightmares of sawing through Sam’s neck with a combat knife, and he’d wake up shaking and go to peer into Sam’s window for affirmation that everything was alright.

Fuck it. He opens the door and is relieved to find the room immaculately cleaned and free of any lumbering little brothers. Of course,  _then_ he spirals into the fear that Sam has run off. Or that someone has taken him. That maybe he’s not even at the camp at all.

He ends up pacing all over the grounds and eventually over to Risa, who’s overlooking their crops with a large frown on her face. It doesn’t take long to figure out why: Castiel is crouched in the middle of a new furrow in the earth, and Sam is kneeling next to him, toiling away and shoveling up dirt to make way for seeds. Dean can’t hear the ex-angel from where he stands, but his face looks patient and his words are likely soft. He sees him trying to carefully pry the trowel from his brother’s tightly clenched hand and comes to the conclusion that Sam must be in one of his trances.

“Nobody saw him sneak out last night, but he’s probably been at this for a while,” Risa says, arms crossed. She’s one of the few from the old days who had stayed behind. Dean had never bothered telling her she had died all those years ago as a diversion, but the fact that he had done it at all leaves his stomach in knots; she’s a loyal friend now - maybe with benefits, but a friend - and one of the few that accepted Sam into this place. For what reason, he wasn’t sure; she had lost everything, same as the others. Maybe she just pities him, that tall nervous guy who doesn’t sleep or eat enough. Maybe she forgives better than Dean ever gave her credit for. She continues, “Cas has been trying to get him to stop for the last half-hour.” A considering pause. “Didn’t want to wake you up unless he couldn’t snap him out of it.”

Dean heaves a sigh. 

_Of course._

He eyeballs the scene and, yeah, it looks like there’s a lot of work done since yesterday. Sam’s been out for a while, and he kicks himself and tries to squash the urge to force his brother to sleep in the same cabin again.

This wasn’t the first time Sam had done this. Sometimes, something in his Sam’s head would go off, a light switch of sorts, and Dean would find him hammering away at nails on boards, trying to add on more homes for any new survivors. Or he would do this, wander to the gardens and fields and start frantically planting and sowing and extending their crops out further. The first time, Dean had let him go for a while (bitterly, maybe, because he was still adjusting to positive emotions; sue him). Figured it was cathartic for the giant. He soon realized that it was mostly Sam trying to punish himself, and Dean had dragged him back to their shared cabin dehydrated, fingers stiff and painfully bent. He was pissed, had snapped at Sam, felt like shit afterward when his little brother ultimately apologized again. Dean came to realize that Sam was just - mentally fucked up like the rest of them, in his own unique ways. Cas liked his drugs and liquor and sex. Dean liked to hide under anger and blunt righteousness and commands. Sam wanted to work until he collapsed into his own grave.

He wanders over and Castiel’s voice floats on the breeze. “The crops can wait, Sam. You’ll certainly regret this in the morning. Think of the cramps…”

But Sam’s eyes are glazed over and he’s not looking at Castiel. His lips move but the words are on mute and it’s pathetic and sad and makes Dean choke down a lump.  _This_ fucking idiot. He ruined everything. He damned the world. And Dean loves him too much to think anything beyond that. Hell, his mind starts going in reverse. 

_Maybe Sam just wanted to save it. Maybe he tried, he really fucking did, but it wasn’t enough. How would I know, because I wasn’t there._

How is he supposed to fault him for that? He crouches (knees crackling) next to Castiel and the man surrenders his spot and scoots back to simply observe with his hands in his lap. Dean hesitates (always), but grabs his brother’s heavy mitts, forcing them to sit still. “Hey, Sasquatch, how about you put the Martha Stewart thing on pause for a second there. Cas is about to tell you about his fruity yoga classes.”

“You should still try them,” Cas chimes in, and Dean just rolls his eyes, tipping Sam’s chin back with a hand and looking into listless eyes. It’s hard to see him like this. But then the contact is made and Sam blinks wearily, hazel colors caught in the light. Pupils contract. Not Lucifer’s eyes. It still catches Dean by surprise. His irises are more green than brown today. Maybe it’s a metaphor. Maybe today will be brighter and richer than the muck they usually wade through.

“I see you, princess,” Dean says, trying to smile. He has a hard time figuring out how to look like a supportive big brother anymore.

“… Hey, Dean.”

He pats his brother’s shoulders, flimsy and smaller than he remembers, but real under his palms. “You’re gonna spend your 40th hunkered down in dirt?” he asks, maybe a little too roughly, and Sam’s gaze flitters away, because he’s probably thinking 

_‘Yeah, yeah I deserve that’_

 or whatever self-flagellation he’s working with. Dean inspects his palms, biting the inside of his cheek to see how rigid his fingers are are. Dean’s body isn’t exactly in the best of shape, but Sam’s is running off of fumes, arthritic in his hands and knees. Some days are better than others, though, and they can’t complain at a best-case scenario like this. Or at least  _he_ can’t, anyway. “Sam - Chuck’s making breakfast today. Says he’ll try to get you some of his special pancakes whipped up. Wouldn’t trust the first batch, but we can use Cas as a guinea pig.”

“It’s a weight I’ll bear,” Cas adds dryly, and the two of them drag Sam up so that he’s standing up. Sam laughs, and Dean’s heart staggers at the sound, because the deep hum of his brother sounding  _happy_ is hard to come by. With each passing day he finds himself cataloging more genuine smiles, a few content chuckles, a sheepish grin. It gives him a reason to think this might all be okay someday. He tallies the victories. 

_Satan is dead. Sam isn’t cutting anymore. Croats are dying out. Sam’s gained a few pounds. A baby is born. Sam is sleeping through some nights. A store opens up. Sam makes a friend. New people show up. Sam is alive._

He claps Sam on the back and they wander back toward the scent of food.

“Why is Chuck in charge of breakfast?” Sam grumbles, huffing, “I thought we were trying to survive.”

In the kitchen, Chuck and some of the hyper kids who have joined his ranks have baked Sam a cake. Vanilla, with icing and old candles and his name on top. There aren’t enough candles, but they’re in good shape, vivid colors dripping down away from the flame; The lantern in the room dims and the kids clumsily sing, unaware of Sam’s struggle in watching them. They just want him to have a good time. One of them made Sam a card, and their spelling is atrocious because education is hard out here. Sam ducks his reddened face and rubs his eyes like he’s tired, and Dean isn’t sure whether or not it’s making Sam feel like shit — even still, he quietly slips Sam a few classical books in nearly mint condition, and the genuine look of surprised, misty-eyed fondness make it worth the unavoidable lack of self-worth.

It’s the most content Dean has truly been since he’d gone to Hell.

Maybe there’s hope after all.

 

* * *

  
Dean has a ritual now, because he’s sick of Sam wandering and not being caught for so long doing it. He’s mastering the skill.  
  
Five months since he got Sam back, he sets an alarm to wake up in the early morning hours. He creeps out into the dark world and presses his ear against his brother’s door. Sometimes he can hear his brother in the middle of a nightmare. Sometimes, he’s sobbing. And sometimes he catches Sam sleep-walking himself out to the fields again and has to turn him around and walk him back home. Or sometimes his brother is already out there. This time, Sam is sobbing - deep, drowning, hushed sobs that leave Dean frozen for a moment, because there it is: his brother’s humanity. Proof of his mistakes, but proof that Sam deserves life after it. He opens the door carefully and wanders over to the bed. This — this comes to him easier than it did during the first few weeks. It had been a very, very long time since he truly touched his brother’s arm, his shoulder. The ability to comfort is still there, but god is it buried deep. Sometimes he feels like such an awful, shitty person, he’s not sure how he can.  
  
“Sam.”  
  
Sam twitches harshly under his heavy palm. He rambles, “It was me, I wasn’t strong enough, it was me, it was always me, I’m a monster, I deserve to die, I’m so sorry, please, please, I’m sorry — they’re all gone, everyone’s gone, and I killed them — everyone, it was me, it was me.” When Dean turns on a lantern he can see that Sam’s face is wet, eyes rimmed red and raw, mouth drawn taut and distorted with his grief; he carefully gathers his brother up in his arms, drags his legs up onto the bed, and encompasses him as best he can. This is gonna be a bad night and a bad morning after. Sam’s gonna make himself literally sick, will probably have a fever and end up laying in bed and taking a few of the rare ibuprofen they have stored in the back. They’ll probably have to get one of the younger kids to ask Sam to take it, because he has a hard time refusing medication from the kids.  
  
He puts a hand on Sam’s arm and rubs it reassuringly, pats down his shoulder and ribs, keeping tabs on how much weight he’s gained or lost, making mental notes. After a while, the sobs die down against Dean’s chest, until they sit in the silence for an hour or two. Running a hand over Sam’s unkempt bangs, he feels the body stir from a light sleep and drowsily shift. “ — Dean…?” Must be out of it, if can’t remember why Dean’s practically spooning him or petting him like a fat cat or something. He feels the amusement in his chest, but it doesn’t quite reach his face, not that Sam can see him in the dark.  
  
He finally mumbles, “I have a lot of things I’m sorry for, y'know? It’s not just you. I mean… I just — I spent a lot of time thinking of things I should’ve done differently.”  
  
Sam curls his fingers in Dean’s shirt.  
  
Dean continues, “I tried for a while to wrap my head around how this happened, you know? Tried to think of what was going through your head. And I — you know, I shoulda’ never left you behind like I did. Me selling my soul… you in the panic room, and then Lucifer… You had to face everything on your own… and I act like you’re the one who runs away, but I ran away, too. I ran, too. And I’m sorry, okay? I got a lot I’m sorry for. I’m really sorry. Think you can forgive me?”  
  
His brother scoffs in a way that is likely self-deprecating, but he says, “Apology accepted, I guess.”  
  
  
And then, more quietly, Sam begs, “Please don’t leave me.”

 

* * *

 

Raelyn visits sometimes with her daughter, Ariel, who was most assuredly named after The Little Mermaid. Sam is always hesitant around them, but Dean can tell that he’s happy when they’re visiting; it’s to be expected, because his brother remembers the faces of kindness all too well during a time where there were very few. Sam’s a chump like that, when it comes to emotionally attachment.  
  
It had been a bad day beforehand — actually, a bad week, because Sam had hit another bout of depression that wiped them both of energy; Dean had spent Friday night with Castiel and Chuck holding Sam down, while he forced water and soup down his throat. It’s not ever a solution, but it’s all they can do. He won’t watch his brother starve to death — or torture himself, starvation on the cusp of his sleeve. He hates to imagine how often Sam had avoided food before he found him in the fields. Now that his strange powers were deflating, it was leaving a Sam more and more capable of collapsing and never getting back up. And that terrified Dean.  
  
The wrestling match Friday night had ended with soup everywhere but on the insides of Sam’s stomach. Still, Dean had ultimately won, when he sent some of the first-graders to Sam with the offer of baked cookies and a sliced apple, because the gigantor literally couldn’t bring himself to turn down the children’s requests; Sam had told him how many kids Lucifer crushed to bits in Sam’s body, when nights were bad. He doesn’t want to think about it for longer than necessary.  
  
Sam’s energy flourishes in Raelyn’s company, and he holds the baby in his lap, lets her sit up and stare out at everyone with wide eyes that make Dean more optimistic than usually allowed. Life goes on, he thinks. He smiles genuinely when Sam talks to Raelyn and her husband, colorful motion in his hands, a light in his eyes. He bounces his knees for Ariel and motions at the air, talking about harvest. At one point, he even laughs upward — not downward, but up, at the sky, like there’s something to look forward to up there, like life had meaning anywhere but in the dirt.  _Sky’s the limit._ They talk about the new people rolling into camp, things those people enjoy. Raelyn knows how to talk to his brother without chipping his mood to bits, or turning it into withdrawn shame; he likes that about her. She’s better than him, more often than naught, and he’s gotten past feeling jealous.  
  
A few days later, Sam saves a kid from drowning in the river nearby. His little brother breathes out like he’s dodged one hell of a bullet. Redemption, right there. A little dollop of redemption, and Sam drinks water and eats his damn soup. Dean actually summons up the audacity and livelihood to flick a spoonful of oatmeal at Sam’s dumb hair, and wonders when it had started being pleasant to be his old self again.

 

* * *

 

“Think you’ll ever have kids?” Sam asked, just once. “Maybe, I mean, if this is all - worked out?”  
  
“Kinda weird topic to leap into, Sam.”  
  
“It’s not like we have contraceptives or condoms in hot demand like we used to. We’ll run out. And you, uh, aren’t exactly covert about your late-night flings.”  
  
 _Well, point taken._ He shrugs, and for once is not the bitter leader that used to shoot infected men point-blank in the skull. Softly: “No kid would want me. You?”  
  
Sam looks completely horrified, which is something Dean will think about a lot tonight. “No.”

“You’d tell me if you didn’t want me around, right? You’d tell me if you don’t want to be around me — right? Just tell me and I’ll go, Dean. You just have to say.”

“Shut up and go to sleep, Sam.”

 

* * *

 

It’s been two years since they found Sam.  
  
Sam is missing again.  
  
Sam is missing, and Dean is frantic. He yells in people’s faces and scares the kids and probably looks psychotic, but there’s a little blood on the ground near Sam’s cabin door and he can’t — he  _couldn't_ find Sam somewhere with a bullet through his skull. Or hanging, a swaying mass in some gnarled up fucking tree. He couldn’t, and he’s not sure what he’ll do if — fuck, fuck.  _Fuck_. Cas doesn’t even bother trying to console him, just rushes around himself with a sort of bizarre panic behind his eyes that he reserves for almost nothing. Risa is shaking her head, talking to some newer settlers at the camp, but for every face that pops up in the search, there’s no Sam. He’s gone, he’s fucking  _gone_ , Dean’s fucked up, he’s failed, he was never supposed to be taking care of another living person ever again —  
  
Someone yells for him to come over quickly.  
  
He runs hard and fast until he’s in the back of the camp, near and the old cabin they’d used for storage, just before the chain-link fence. He expects to see more blood. And there is. There’s blood on the grass, spittle that never quite reached a decent puddle; then he hears Sam. When he gets to the back of the shitty old wooden structure, Cas is there with a handful of other men and women trying to pry open a cellar door smudged with blood, locked from the outside with stone-heavy chains and a rusted padlock. The panicked screams for help are his brother’s, stuck behind the thudding wooden frame, and Dean’s blood boils while his stomach simultaneously drops. He’s going to rip someone apart tonight, he thinks, as he shoves through and leans into the doors, barking out orders like his father, if only because he has no way else to try and make this better.  _Get the fuck out of the way_. Inside, Sam screams like someone’s twisting his arm out of the socket. “Sam, Sam! Calm down. We’re gonna get you out, okay? You need to be  _calm_.”  
  
Sam moans, never stops rambling in a jumbled, hysterical ( _slurred_ ) tone, “Dean — it’s dark, I  _can't_ — I can’t do this again, I can’t; the rings didn't  _work_ , Dean — He’s got me again. He’s always had me, Dean. The rings didn’t work; I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t win, I wasn’t — good enough. Oh, god, it’s so dark. Not again, not again — ” And all Dean can do while they get the axe is try to hush him, try to calm him down with  _it’s okay, Sam_ , and _we’re all here to get you out_  and  _it’ll be fine_. But all he could think was that someone shoved his brother into a cellar and locked him into the creeping darkness below, and he wants to smash their noses in with his fists. They may have had a sob story, a reason. _He doesn’t care._  
  
“Sammy,” he rumbles, face close to the door, intimately so. “Sam, stop! Listen to me!" The banging stops. Sam’s breathing is stuttered, not a healthy rhythm, while Dean smooths his palm over the old door, wondering if Sam’s hand is on the other side. Wondering if he still has that sixth sense the two share that hasn’t exactly disappeared. "Sam, we’re gonna use the axe, but you have to move, okay? You get hit, I’m gonna revoke your gardening privileges. I don’t think you want that, little brother.”  
  
The last two words feel unnatural leaving his mouth nowadays, but Sam’s breathing hitches at it, and his muffled voice stammers, “Kay, Dean. H'Okay.”  
  
When they finally rip the damn double doors off the hinges, Sam staggers up into the light like he’s being chased by the inky dark below. Dean has to catch his breath. His eyes are nearly swollen shut, blood from his nose carpeting his chin and shirt and hands. His cheek is torn open, his lip twice its normal size on one side. Without a second thought, Dean collects the swaying, panting giant into his arms and sits him down, runs hands over him to find broken bones. There are bruised ribs and molted marks and one dislocated shoulder. Sam didn’t fight back; Dean knows he didn’t, because he knows his brother now — maybe even knows him better than he did before Lucifer, before Dad dying and Sam leaving for school. He doesn’t want to know his brother like this.  
  
“Who did it, Sam? Who fucking did it? Sam?” He shoves his brother’s hair aside, noting an oozing cut that will need stitches, unhappy with how Sam lolls and lists to the side at every prodding finger. There are finger marks on Sam’s neck: a perfect grouping, five fingers on each hand. Sam refuses to tell him who did it, but they find a body on the outskirts of the camp — Ethan Matheson’s body (new guy, construction worker, lost his children, lost his girlfriend, lost everything) was half-submerged in the river with a bullet in his skull, straight through the roof of his mouth. Watching Sam sit idly in front of this man’s grave, Dean has no doubt who had beaten his brother’s face into a pulp. The desire to fly into a blind rage about it has been stolen from him.  
  
Sam looks at Dean when he approaches, cross-legged there after having deposited flowers on the soil, face covered in stitches and tape'n'gauze and some kid’s heart-patterned bandaid, and asks, “Why?”  
  
He knows Sam isn’t asking why the guy attacked him; he’s asking why he stopped. Why he died instead of Sam.  
  
Dean crouches down to the earth, nudges Sam’s good shoulder, and wordlessly offers him a beer. Sam will probably not sleep well for a few days. Will need to be force-fed pain pills. He’ll also have to get one of the little kids in the camp to give Sam breakfast… hide the knives and guns, just in case. Sleep on Sam’s cabin floor tonight; maybe he’ll read something off of Sam’s big shelf. Sam’s face’ll get better. He’ll help Sam out in the fields, make sure the kid drinks enough water.  
  
He breathes in deep and puts a hand on the nape of Sam’s neck, rocking them for a moment, absorbing the warm sensation of Sam living beneath his fingers.  
  
They sit in their silence and watch the sky bruise, then shimmer in the dark.

 

* * *

 

Sam sputters, “Holy  _shit._  Your  _face_ — ”

  
This was Cas’ stupid fucking idea. Stomping grapes — who stomps  _grapes_? Fuck wine, why don’t they just make moonshine? They’re already all drunk off it, and it’s not like it takes fifty years or a degree in rocket science. Jesus, it’s in his hair; he’s got purple jam in his hair, on his knees. Dean Winchester is a  _hunting machine_ , someone you shake in your boots at; he does not trip over his own buckets and plaster himself in half-crushed grape corpses. Sam croaks out, “If we put him out in the sun, you think he’s sour enough to go raisin on us?” Cas is laughing hard, nothing like an angel, and Sam (Sam, who had almost stayed in bed, who couldn’t even eat half a goddamn sandwich the day before) is laughing hard too, so hard his arms have to hold his ribs in one place — gasping and giggling until his face is red, because Dean is shaking a bucket off his ass like he’s a cartoon and — there are tears in Sam’s eyes, like he’s doing this all giddily at a prank, like he’s gluing bottles to hands and scaring Dean awake with a car radio; his cheeks are bright red, eyes are lucid, more green than brown, and he’s laughing and laughing, and Dean doesn’t laugh because his throat closes up, choked at the sight.  
  
He scoops up a glob of jelly and smashes it into Sam’s hair. They don’t break windows and mirrors and tables in an old motel. They don’t slam their fists into each other’s faces. Dean never collapses on his back and Sam never walks away. The purple mess drips off his brother’s thin face, and it’s not blood. And Sam laughs.


End file.
